


A Wedding, a Kilt, and Angel Eyes to Die For

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Lock, Brief public sex, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, John calls Sherlock "Posh Boy, John is Scottish, John is still in the army, M/M, One Night Stand, One night to forever, Pet Names, Porn With Feels, Scotland, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Top John, Wedding Fluff, alternate first meeting, kilt porn, sherlock rides john, slight case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 01:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10232777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: When John agrees to be best man for Harry's wedding, he has no idea how much he's getting into. For starters, the tall drink of water playing on stage with the band is going to be the death of him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a gift for Smirkdoctor, written for the prompt: "It's Harry/Clara's wedding and they went surprisingly traditional, so John is in a kilt. First meeting with Sherlock, who can be there for whatever reason...a case, someone's date, to play the violin. Drunken cuteness and probably sex? And of course we need a lot of detail about what John does or does not wear under the kilt..."

 

+++

 

“God, Harry, no. Do I _have_ to wear a kilt?”

“Oh, leave off, Johnny. If Clara’s making me pick a skirt, you can wear the damn Watson tartan. Show some family pride, man.”

“Fine.” John huffed out a breath as he clutched his mobile tighter. “It’s a good thing you’re my favorite, sister.” He swiveled in his chair to glance out the window. The desert winds were picking up, blowing the sand about in fierce eddies that morning.

“I’m your only sister.” John could hear the eye roll even from so far away. Her voice softened. “But thank you. You know, I really appreciate it . . . you coming to my wedding and all.”  

“Oi, don’t go all mushy on me now. Course I’ll be there, with bells on . . . and a sporran apparently.”  He’d put in for leave months ago. It was all set, his trip to Edinburgh for the big do.

 “Thanks, John really. We’re planning on having those cheese tarts you like at the reception.”

“Oh well, then you can’t keep me away.”

Harry laughed. It was good to hear her being so upbeat about something . . . and so sober. They talked a few minutes more about upcoming plans before saying good-bye. John sighed after ringing off. He hated kilts, bloody stupid things, but if it meant wearing one to serve as best man for Harry and her bride-to-be, God willing, he’d be at the wedding wrapped in plaid.

 

+++

 

Scotland was a shock after ten straight months in Afghanistan. John stepped out of the warmth of the airport into a bone-chilling drizzle. The sudden cold snap in September was unusual even by local standards, and John flipped up his collar, tugging the zipper on his jacket as high as it would go. He found a black cab quickly enough from the line-up, giving them the address of the hotel as he settled into his seat.

John had visited Edinburgh a number of times, but it had been several years since he’d last made it back. Harry’s intended had family in the area, and with both of their parents dead, and John serving abroad, it only made sense to hold the wedding on Clara’s home turf. John smiled at the scenery as the cab made its way through the twisty streets of the city to their destination. Nothing in Afghanistan had seemed as sturdy as the thick stone and brick buildings of sensible Scotland.

Harry met him in the lobby of the quaint hotel, folding him into an unusually enthusiastic embrace, obviously swept up in the frenzy of the wedding. Thankfully he had a few minutes to check into his room and change before Harry was pulling him along to a dinner and a whirlwind of introductions with Clara and her family. John smiled and nodded, trying to keep names straight, pleased to see how well Harry looked hanging on the arm of the serious, brown-haired girl she’d decided to call her own.

John was jet lagged and exhausted when he dragged off to his hotel room at 9:30 pm, grateful for a hot shower and a soft bed in that order.

The next morning, after a breakfast at the hotel with Clara and Harry practically in each other’s laps, and John eating his weight in sausage, and fresh fruit, Harry announced that they needed to pick up his wedding suit. Harry and Clara made such a sad show of saying good-bye that John felt his usual patience wearing thin.

“You know, it’s alright if Clara comes along as well.”

“No, no, you two should have some family time alone,” Clara insisted. “Come on, Puppy, I’ll see you later.” Clara kissed a besotted Harry’s cheek, and John had to duck his head to hide a smile.

Finally shooed on their way, he and Harry caught a cab to the tailor’s.

“She’s nice. I’m happy for you . . . Puppy.”

“Oh, shut it.” Harry leaned over to slug John in the arm.

“Ow! Now there’s the the Harriet Watson I know and love.” John massaged the sore spot.

“Clara’s so  . . . God, she’s everything.” Harriet’s face glowed.

“Yeah, she’s good. I like her. I think you look good together. Kind of opposites attract.”

“What she’s the sane one and I’m the crazy arsehole?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say . . .”

“I’m worried, John.” Harry flopped back against the seat, switching moods like the wind changing.

“Aw, don’t worry. Nothing good comes of it.”  It was something their mother used to say . . . perhaps  too much really.

“No, I’m serious.”  Harry pulled a face. “Sometimes, it all feels too good to be true, like I’m going to wake up and find it was all a dream. I’m afraid, Johnny. Afraid, I’m going to screw it all up.”

John didn’t want to bring up her drinking. She’d done it before, gone sober for awhile before falling off the wagon. John had been pleased to see Harry order an orange juice at breakfast when Bloody Mary’s were clearly on the menu. He decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Harry. It’s fine.” He reached out to touch her knee. “Clara seems fantastic, and you look like you’re doing fine so far.”

“Yeah.” A silly smile had drifted over Harry’s face again. “Clara is fantastic.”

The tailor’s shop was an old-fashioned affair, a small place packed floor to ceiling with suits and tartans. An elderly man with a highland brogue so thick it was hard to understand him appeared to help them.

“Yes, we’ve come for the suit for the Cameron-Watson wedding?” Harry spoke a bit too loudly.

Once it was established that John was the one being outfitted, the man bustled John into the back. “So are ye a Watson by birth, or just wearing the plaid for the wedding?”

“Oh, a Watson, right and proper.”

“That’s fine.” The man’s face crinkled as he smiled. “Say, are ye from these parts? Do ye ken David and Joey Watson and their lot?”

“No, not from around here,” John hurried to correct him. “My family was from Dumfries, but we moved farther south when I was little.”

“Ah, looking for softer weather.” The man chuckled as he produced an armful of folded things for John to try on. John felt like he was eleven and getting ready for school again, but he dutifully stepped into the dressing room, and set to work. The elderly shopkeeper popped back in to help him get the tasseled leather sporran hanging correctly in front.

“There now. Aren’t you a bonny lad?” The man beamed as John stood before the full-length mirror.

John had to admit he looked pretty sharp in the crisp navy jacket, the white dress shirt, and the blue and green tartan of the Watson clan falling to his knees.

“Just be sure you’re dressed like a true Scotsman underneath, wearing what God gave ye.” The man winked at him.

“Yeah, alright.” John shifted a bit uncomfortably, well aware that he still had his snug boxer briefs on under the kilt, thank you very much.

John stepped out into the main room where Harry was fingering some scarves. She turned around, and gasped at the sight of him.

“Johnny, God. You look just like Da.”

Something hot flared in John’s chest at that. James Watson has been the life of the party. Until he had too much to drink, and then he’d just been a mean sonofabitch. John touched his jaw, unconsciously rubbing over it. He wanted nothing to do with the man, or his unfortunate memory.

“God, I hope not,” John ground out.

“No . . . not really. Well, you look good,” Harry amended, her mouth a pressed line.

John went back to retrieve his own clothes, and was presented with his outfit neatly packed in a plastic hanging bag for transport.

“Enjoy the wedding!” The man called as they left.

John nodded his thanks as he opened the front door, the bell jingling as he and Harry slipped out.

 

+++

 

The wedding was a lovely affair held in a small church a few minutes away from the hotel. Harry and Clara had both looked radiant in frothy white things, repeating their pledges earnestly to each other. John had stood next to Harry while Clara’s two sisters, Amy and Livie, had been beside her in long navy dresses. The group moved back to the hotel after, the reception being held in a large function room downstairs.

John glanced about the happy crowd, eating and drinking thanks to Clara’s father and his dental practice. It was good the Camerons were well off because the Watsons hardly had two coins to rub together. Most of the guests were from Clara’s side. Harry had only managed to scrounge up a few cousins they hardly knew, and a few friends from uni . . . and him of course. John moved back to the bar to get another drink, looking up as a group of musicians began setting up on a small stage in the back.  A few portly gentlemen, in tartan waistcoats tuned their instruments, but it was the long drink of water in a dark suit with a violin that snagged his eye. John ordered his whiskey on the rocks, and moved closer to watch as the band launched into their first number. It was something soft and pretty, background music until the dancing began later.

John watched transfixed, following the movement of the violinist. He swayed in time to the music, eyes closed as his long fingers leapt over his violin strings, and his other arm curved to move the bow. A spike of pure want lanced through John. _Christ_ , but the man was beautiful. He wasn’t the usual sort to turn John’s head. He’d been tap dancing around his commanding officer for months now, a handsomely rugged man who John greatly admired.

No, this one was slim, elegant, posh-looking even. God, something in the way he moved though, the contrast of that mop of dark hair against pale skin, and those oddly angular features, it all added up to something utterly breathtaking. Then the vision opened his eyes. John gloried in their ocean-water colour, and shape, slanted back slightly like a cat’s until they flicked his way, and _fuck_ , caught him staring. The beautiful man’s gaze widened slightly, dropping to run leisurely over John’s form, taking in the kilt and the long wool stockings before returning to lock eyes with him. A small smile tipped up the edge of the violinist’s gorgeously-full lips. John felt heat pooling low in his belly.

Well, then.

John didn’t. With men. Well, not often. It had been years since he’d done more than exchange flirty banter and heated looks with a man. Annoyingly, Harry and Clara had been trying to set him up with Clara’s cousin, Sylvia, all weekend. They been herded next to each other at meals, “Oh, Sylvie, come sit here, luv,” but the chemistry just wasn’t there. Sylvia had rolled her eyes good naturedly, cottoning on to the matchmaking as well. Still, she was pretty, and worked as a nurse, so they’d had enough in common to enjoy chatting together.

This one though, looking like pure sex in a suit jacket up on the stage, this one was trouble. John licked his lips. The man closed his eyes again, concentrating, a little crease forming between his eyebrows as he leaned back into the flow of the music. A particularly, long lovely note reverberated holding sweetly in the air before the song floated to a close. John silently gave thanks for the looseness a kilt afforded as he felt his cock stirring to life. After a smattering of applause, the band slid into its next tune. John stood sipping his drink until it was gone, then went back to the bar and got another.

Eventually, the dinner was over, and the dancing began. Harry and Clara took center stage for one touching round about the dance floor, and then the band switched over to lively jigs and reels, and the rest of the crowd took to their feet. John got pulled into a few dances, always keeping half an eye on the stage. Several times he felt certain the violinist with the angelic eyes and lips was staring holes in the back of his head. Whenever he looked up though, the man was simply concentrating on playing, or smiling at his band mates. John danced with Sylvia, Harry making an exaggerated thumbs up at them as she and Clara went by. John huffed a sigh.  Honestly. Married people. They acted as if they had to get everyone paired up as soon as they were settled – like it was a virus being passed around or something.

John risked another glance at the stage, and this time caught the sex-on-wheels creature staring back. John deliberately held his glance, dragging his tongue slowly across his lower lip. The man faltered, missing notes. John chuckled to himself, pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. He watched as the violinist blushed furiously, and found his way back into the song. Christ. It felt dangerous, this thing, in the midst of people who knew him. John loved it.

John thanked Sylvia for the dance once the song had ended, and excused himself to the loo. He returned, hoping to get another drink as an excuse to simply stand and watch the band, but found that sadly, they had finished playing. Pop tunes were now blaring from a speaker, and the vision with the violin was nowhere to be seen. John sighed, turning toward the bar anyway when Harry intercepted him.

“John, we’re getting ready to cut the cake and the photographer’s done a runner.” Harry’s face looked damp from all the dancing, but her eyes were shining bright. “I need you to find the bastard. Short bloke? Ginger?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The one with the big camera. Okay.” John stalked off to fulfill at least some of his best man duties.

After knocking about the place, he finally located the photographer smoking out front with a few other indulging guests, and oh my god . . . _him_. The violinist from the band was standing apart, wrapped in a long, dark coat, leaning against the stone of the building, and blowing out a stream of smoke from those perfect lips.  John felt weak in the knees.

John scowled at the photographer and let him know that his services were required back inside. After watching the man apologize and scurry off, John was free to do what he actually wanted which was move closer to the beautiful man in the shadows.

It was bloody cold out now that the sun was down, and John could feel the chill on his legs wafting up under the kilt with each step. He’d gone pantsless on a whim, following the sly advice from the man in the shop. It had made him feel a bit daring during the wedding, but now it just left his balls feeling chilly. Of course the man peering at him in the dark, watching him advance was doing wonders for warming his blood. Christ, he was pretty. If it weren’t for the well-aged whiskey now flowing through his veins, John doubted he’d have the nerve to walk straight up to him.

“Those things will kill you,” John said, his eyes roving between that cupid’s bow of a mouth, and the long elegant fingers currently holding the burning cigarette.

“Hmm.” The man took another long, slow drag from it, blowing the smoke out luxuriously. “Well, we all have to go sometime. Might as well enjoy the stay.”

 _Oh, Holy Christ. No._ The man had a posh, plummy voice as deep and dark as a velvet night sky. It slithered down John’s ear, grabbed hold of his central nervous system, and cancelled all higher brain functions.

“Are you enjoying the stay?” He managed to say, listening to himself talk as if from somewhere far away.

“I might be enjoying it more now.” One side of the man’s mouth quirked up as he took another pull from the fag. 

“You played beautifully in there. That was .  . . amazing.”

A small flush appeared over the man’s ravishing cheekbones. He dropped his eyes as he exhaled the smoke. “It’s not my full-time job,” he confessed.

 “No, I expect not,” John said. He couldn’t imagine playing weddings or parties and the like paid enough to live on. Surely this talented man taught music or played in a symphony somewhere.

“So, you’re a soldier.” He raised his piercing gaze back to John.

“How did you know . . .”

“Your sister.” He waved the cigarette in the air with one, long beautiful hand, flicking ash away. “She made a speech at the dinner, thanked you for flying in from Afghanistan.”

“Oh yeah.” Harry had popped up right after John’s best man speech, nearly upsetting her sparkling water to gush on, thanking everyone involved in the wedding. Clara had had to eventually pull her back down.

“Plus the way you comport yourself.” His tipped his chin toward where John had barked at the wedding photographer just a few minutes prior. “It fairly screams _military_.”

John forced himself to breath calmly under the intensity of the man’s stare. “Well, I’m a doctor too, actually. Army doctor.”

“Hmmm.” The man smirked, rumbling a pleased noise from inside his throat.

“Like soldiers do you?” John felt some of his confidence returning.

The man nodded almost imperceptibly, swaying slightly nearer. John felt himself leaning in toward the vision of loveliness when the man’s eyes darted past John’s shoulder. He shifted, moving upright as he pushed away from the wall.

“Actually I was thinking of taking a walk. I would enjoy the company if you’d like to come with me.”

“Alright.” John turned to follow him almost on autopilot, watching as he tossed his dog end into an ashtray outside the hotel, and stalked up the pavement.  It was a fairly steep incline, and John jogged a bit to catch up.

They were in a touristy part of town, and a number of people ambled about on the street despite the chill in the air. They passed several souvenir shops, two pubs, and a place selling thick knit jumpers and shawls before anyone spoke.

“Are we headed any place special?” John asked.

“Erm . . . no . . . just stretching my legs.”

“Okay.” John had to hustle to keep up with the long legs in question, but he didn’t mind too much. The effort was helping keep him warm.

His companion was something else, tall, pale, ethereal-looking, gliding along with his great coat billowing out behind him. For just a moment, John had the notion that he was out with an elf straight from the pages of the Tolkien he’d read as a boy.

The tall man slowed suddenly, scanning the crowd ahead, and John realized that one of the guests from the wedding, a heavyset bloke in a red plaid kilt was ahead of them on the pavement.  He looked to be weaving his way through a knot of people chatting outside a café.

“Hey, isn’t that . . .”

“Shhh.” His companion gripped his arm, stopping him until the man ahead had pushed through the crowd and continued up the street. Only when red kilt had gained some distance did they start walking again.

“Wait, are we following that guy?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

John had to quicken his step again to stay by his new friend’s side as he launched off, keeping pace with Mr. Red Kilt until he turned into a post office. They caught up to watch him through the large front window illuminated starkly from within. The front desk was closed of course, but the man crossed the lobby moving toward the private mailboxes.

“Aha!” His friend exclaimed, whipping out a phone to snap pictures through the glass door, tracking the man’s movements as he opened a box, and removed a stack of letters.

“Look,” John said, crossing his arms as he shifting his weight from foot to foot, “if you’ve got some kind of kilt fetish or something  . . .”

“Of course not,” The man snapped, swiveling back to face him. “Well, I mean I quite like _you_ in a kilt,” his sharp eyes flew quickly over John, “but that’s not while I’m tailing him.” He nodded toward the bloke inside.

“No, then why _are_ you following him?” John frowned, puzzled at the odd turn to the evening.

“I’m a consulting detective.”  His mop of curls bent down as he typed something on his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen.

“Oh, yeah?” John raised both eyebrows.

“Yes.” The fey creature glanced up as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I consult with the police when they are out of their depths which is quite often, but I also take on private cases on the side when things are slow.”

“So, this is for a case then, watching this friend of Harry and Clara’s?”

“That’s right . . .”

They both jumped when they realized they’d lost track of things, and the man was now pushing his way back out of the building. Quick as a flash, his tall friend had crowded John back against the wall. His big coat swung forward to envelope them both as he leaned in to catch John’s mouth in a hot, sloppy kiss. John froze for half a second before melting into the onslaught. His arms slipped under the layers encasing his lithe friend, and curved gratefully around his warm back to hang on.

He tasted faintly of the cigarette he’d had earlier, but the rest of him was simply delicious. John surged up, meeting the ferocity of the kiss with a heat of his own. He felt large hands slide down until they were cupping his arse, urging him even closer to the leg thrust between his own. John groaned as his swelling erection ground into the man’s thigh. John kissed and kissed, losing himself utterly in the captivating dance of lips and breath. The near stranger had his tongue thrust completely into John’s mouth and he adored it. Gradually it dawned on John that it was growing colder along his backside. He had barely realized that his intrepid friend had managed to lift the back of his kilt, scrunching up the fabric when the shock of skin on skin hit him, the heat of a large hand curving over his bare arse cheek.

“Nnnggg” John turned his head, pressing his face against the glorious long neck before him as strong hands kneaded over his bum.

“I always wondered what was under a kilt,” a rich voice rumbled by his ear, “and now I know.”

“Fuck,” John exhaled. “Goin’ get us arrested,” he mumbled.

“Well, we can’t have that,” the man said somewhat petulantly, dropping John’s kilt back into place. John couldn’t help the disappointed sound that escaped from his mouth.

“Want . . . want to touch you.” John’s hands slid down to grasp the surprisingly plush arse of the thin man in his arms. He inhaled deeply of the scent at the hollow of his throat, and gave in to at least one of his desires as he opened up his mouth and licked up the smooth column of his neck.

It was his friend’s turn to melt and gasp as he leaned heavily against John, tipping his head back to give John better access to his delectable throat.

“Not so big now, hmm, Posh Boy?” John teased, licking and nipping his way to just below his ear. “God I want you,” John growled, “Want to take you apart, want you naked spread out in my bed, want to fuck you so good . . .”

“Yes,” the man said simply.

John blinked owlishly up at him. He hadn’t actually realized he’d been speaking aloud, but now that his friend was saying yes, his brain struggled to catch up.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” John smiled broadly. They extricated themselves to find their feet, John taking the man’s hand to tug him back toward the hotel. It was delightful just to feel their fingers intertwined, though John was looking forward to getting as much of their skin pressed together as soon as possible.

The streets of Edinburgh had taken on a new glow as they made their way back down the hill, hand in hand, grinning at each other like fools. A group of people singing loudly off-key, dressed like a neon rainbow, brushed past them, and they burst into laughter. John drank in the deep chuckles that issued from his skinny friend like water in the desert. Twice they had to stop to kiss each other breathless, hands roving and clutching, but eventually they managed to stumble into the hotel, find the elevator and make it back to John’s room. John fumbled the key card out of the leather purse now hanging drunkenly off one hip, and let them inside.

“God, finally,” he breathed as the door swung shut behind them.

They were on each other in an instant, helping each other out of their clothes, things flying to the floor as John backed his new friend toward the bed. John’s fingers worked on the row of buttons on the man’s dark shirt, leaning in to suck kisses onto each new inch of pale flesh revealed.

“Mmmm, yes,” his vision of loveliness agreed.

When John went to remove the kilt, the man’s hand stayed him. “No, leave it on awhile longer.”

“Okay.” John grinned wolfishly, and tumbled them both to the mattress.

Their kisses were electric things sending shocks all over John’s body. He plunged a hand into the wealth of curls that had been tempting him all night and pulled slightly. The man writhed under him with a gasp.

“Mmm, you beautiful thing.” John kept his hand buried in his hair as he kissed over the man’s jaw to gnaw at his neck.

The man slipped a hand under his kilt, sliding up the back of his thigh to grasp onto an arse cheek again. It felt better than good. John lost the thread of what he was doing as clever fingers moved about, probing and stroking. When his friend worked his hand around to grasp his erection, John jolted.

“God _damn_.”

“Fantastic,” the man sighed as he moved his hand gently back and forth, working John’s foreskin over his shaft.

Despite the waves of pleasure sparking through him, John managed to get his own hand down around his friend’s cock. It felt delightfully long and hard in his hand, silk over steel.

Suddenly they were kissing again, near inhaling each other in their enthusiasm.

“I want you to fuck me,” his lover growled against his lips.

“Oh my God, yes.” John kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

“We need . . .”

“Yes, wait a moment.” John pulled himself with great reluctance from the arms of the captivating creature and staggered to his bag. After rooting around a moment, he returned triumphant with a tube of medical grade lubricant in hand.

“Wait, I don’t have any condoms.” John’s face fell.

“Don’t care.” The man dragged him back into his embrace. I’m clean, and you’re a doctor in the army.

Whatever medical protestations John might have had evaporated like dew in the sunlight as plush lips connected with his throat and a hand reached under his kilt to close around him again.

John hung on to the sharp jut of the man’s hip, near shivering with the feeling of those long fingers working over his cock.

“Will you open me?” A soft kiss was pressed below his jaw before teeth grazed over his earlobe.

John swallowed hard. “Yes, alright.”

He fumbled over the bedclothes to find where he’d dropped the lube on the mattress, and watched as his lover lay back, spreading his legs open in glorious invitation.

John managed to uncap the tube and slick up one hand. The chill of the gel was a surprise, and he paused for a moment, feeling the enormity of the situation well up around him. The man was a wet dream come to life stretched over his bed. He was lean, but beautifully muscled, long, ropy limbs, miles of creamy skin and a rosy erection, hard just for him, bumping against his belly.

“I, erm wanted to let you know, I don’t often . . .”

“I don’t ever,” The man replied softly looking right into his eyes.

“Ever?’

“Well, not for a very long time.”

“We don’t have to . . .” John started.

“I want to ride you.”

“Ah,” John felt a small bonfire ignite in his veins. “Well, we’ll take it slow then.”

“I trust you.” His verdigris cat’s eyes were luminous in the scant light from the bedside lamp.

John took a deep breath. With one hand laid on his thigh to settle them both, he slid fingers down, down, carefully parting his glutes to find the tight pucker of his entrance within. Ever so gently, he worked a fingertip inside. He was rewarded with a low groan. Emboldened John pushed in farther, watching, fascinated, as it slid slowly back and in. When his friend had relaxed, melting into the bedcovers, John reached over to take hold of his cock.  It was long and elegant just like the rest of him, and John’s heart swelled to see how vulnerable he looked, sprawled out under his hands like this.

He squeezed the beautiful cock gently as he introduced a second finger into his arse. When he crooked his fingers just so, the man shuddered, his back arching off the bed. John felt a flush of satisfaction roll over him. Oh, he was a lovely thing.

“Stop, oh stop,” the man begged. “I don’t want to come yet . . . want to ride . . .”

“Yes.” John licked his lips. “Should I take off . . .” he hand went to the fasteners of the kilt.

“No, I keep it. . .  I like it,” his friend said shyly, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Alright.” John smiled.

They exchanged positions, John laying back while his angel climbed onto his lap, his erection jutting before him. He pushed John’s kilt back, whistling appreciatively through his teeth when John’s hard cock bobbed free.

“Oh yes, this will do nicely.”

John reached for the lube, but the man batted his hand away. “No, let me.” He squirted a ribbon of gel over his palm, and set to slicking John’s penis with it.

John closed his eyes, letting the glorious sensations roll over him as that long hand moved along his length. He opened them briefly as the man raised up, positioned John where he wanted him, and sank down. Then he tried to remember how to breathe.

His dark-haired dream hissed, leaning over John until he’d caught his equilibrium, then he was moving, taking his pleasure from John as he rocked slowly back and forth. John reached up blindly and caught hold of the man’s thighs, groaning as the bliss built over him.

The bed springs creaked as they picked up momentum, John thrusting up as his lover surged down to meet him. John felt the pleasure down to his toes. He knew he was making ridiculous noises, but he couldn’t manage to help himself.

“Unh, baby, sweetheart, you gorgeous, posh thing, uunnnfff. . .”

The man seemed to appreciate it, doubling his efforts to drive John out of his mind as he rode him with increasing abandon. John felt that warm tingle rising from the base of his cock signaling his imminent release.

“Oh, FUCK,” John cried out as it suddenly crested over him, his orgasm rolling through him in long shivery waves of bliss.

The man pulled at his own cock, and soon joined him, his entrance pulsing around John’s softening prick, as a burst of wetness pooled between them. John reached up to catch him as he tumbled over in a heap across his chest.

“Oh, yes, baby, you beautiful thing.” John kissed wherever he could reach, petting over him as the man lay panting open-mouthed against him.

When some semblance of calm had returned at last, John stood, unfastening the damp kilt, and dropped it on the floor as he stumbled for the loo. He returned with a wet flannel, and helped his near boneless guest mop up.

Eyes as blue as the Aegean sea regarded him from under a spill of dark curls as John swiped over him. “Thank you.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. As well.” John paused in his ministrations to really look at him. “God, where have you been all my life?”

“Not in Afghanistan.”

“No, definitely not there.” John shook his head, dropping the cloth to the floor. He lay his hand over the man’s pale stomach, spreading his fingers out. It pleased him, the contrast of his tanned skin against the light pallor of his lover. “This lovely white skin would burn there in an instant.”

“Oh, but you’re a doctor. You’d make it all better.” An eyebrow arched suggestively.

“God, yes, I’ll make you better, you naughty boy.”

The man laughed as John gathered him close, dropping tickling pecks over his chest and neck.

“Mmmm.” The man arched against him like a cat, and just like that, they were kissing ravenously again, clutching each other as close as they could.

 

+++

 

John blinked awake to the taste of something furry in his mouth, bright light streaming in through the window, and an insistent banging at the door.

By far the nicest discovery was the long, pale form tangled up in the sheets beside him. John scooted closer to take advantage of the man’s warm back, nuzzling in to drop kisses along his humid nape, under his tangled curls. The creature of delight stirred, rolling over to blink sleepy eyes open. A soft smile uncurled over his face. “Good morning,” he murmured, looking at John as if he’d hung the moon.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” John smiled back, leaning in to kiss those plump, delicious lips.

“JOHNNY SO HELP ME IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW . . .” Another knock came that rattled the door in its hinges.

“Sorry.” John winced and hurried out of bed, finding some black briefs that weren’t his to pull on as he stumbled to answer.

“Harry, Christ, what the fuck?” John cracked the door to squint at his angry sister glaring at him from the hallway.

“Oh, there you are. Where the hell where you last night? You missed all the fun! The police showed up to arrest one of Clara’s uni friends. Total cock-up.” Harry pushed her way past John into the room.

“Harry, wait . . .”

She stopped in her tracks when she saw the bare-chested man lounging against the headboard. “JOHN, oh my god.” She turned to him, a look of incredulity pasted across her face. “Who the hell is this?”

John was completely chagrined when he realized he didn’t know. How could he have failed to learn the name of the angel currently lying in his bed?

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man supplied helpfully. “Pleased to meet you.”

Sherlock. _Sheeerlock_. What an odd name. So unusual. It fit the rare beauty though. Something unusual for this rare gem among men. John smiled soppily at him, and the man . . . Sherlock, blushed.

“Yeah, good morning,” Harry managed.

“He wasn’t actually a friend of your wife’s.”

“Oh . . . what?” Harry raised her eyebrows.

“No, Duncan Frasier was married to her friend from university, but they were only wed a year ago. Clara hardly knew the man. Apparently though, neither did her friend.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Harry lowered her brows into a frown.

“I was the one who alerted the authorities about him.”

“YOU? What in the . . . ” Harry peered more closely at Sherlock. “Hey, weren’t you part of the band?”

“That’s right. I bribed the musicians to let me sit in for a set. I told them it was a present for the newlyweds.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder carelessly. “I needed to keep Frasier under surveillance. I’ve been monitoring him for a few weeks now, amassing evidence on a PONSI investment scheme he’s been running. Finding him accessing a post office box here in Edingburgh was the last bit of evidence I needed to nail him.”

“He’s a consulting detective,” John said proudly, glad to have remembered that much from the muddled evening before. Sherlock glanced at him with a bright look of pleasure on his face. John wanted nothing better than to crawl back on top of him, and kiss the man senseless.

“Christ, I can’t take this before I’ve even had coffee.” Harry sank wearily into the room’s only chair, rubbing at her forehead.  “And you, Johnny, look at you. Since when do you do _men_?”

“You’d be surprised.” John quirked a smile.

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock said. “You were fantastic, I’ve never. . .”

“Alright, enough. I’m going to collect my wife, and we’re going down to breakfast before we jet off to Spain for a RELAXING week at the beach.” Harry stood to better glare at John. “I’d like your arse down there so Clara and her parents can see that you’re alive before we go. Bring your boyfriend if you want, but be down there in fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, okay, Harry. Look I’m sorry things were so crazy last night.”

“Oh God. Why did I think my wedding would be _normal_?” Harry shook her head as she made her way to the door. She turned for a parting scowl. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Congratulations on your nuptials!” Sherlock called out as the door closed behind her.

John looked at Sherlock, and they both burst out laughing.

Somehow they managed to cram into the small shower together and wash off, despite frequent bouts of snogging.

“God, I’m so sorry I didn’t even get your name last night,” John apologized as he soaped up Sherlock’s mad hair.

“Oh, I don’t know. I quite liked _Posh Boy_ . . . or I liked how you said it.”

“Ah. Well, it certainly fits.”

They made it downstairs only a few minutes late, but Harry was so caught up with watching Clara tell a story that it hardly mattered.

The two men filled their plates from the buffet and found a spot near the others. John introduced Sherlock around and commiserated with the remaining guests on the spot of bother that had happened the night before.

“I’ve got three more days of leave,” John said, watching Sherlock over the rim of his teacup. I was planning on renting a car and doing a bit of sight-seeing. I don’t know how busy you are, but if you’re free . . .”

“I’ve nothing on I couldn’t shamelessly set aside.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder looking utterly edible in his rumpled shirt and half-wet curls.

“Good.” John couldn’t help grinning ear to ear. “Glad that’s settled.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock breathed, leaning in to kiss John over his buttered scones.

 +++

**Author's Note:**

> Although I have been to Edinburgh, and am of Scottish descent, I really know very little about how real Scottish & English people talk. Forgive any Americanisms, please! As an aside, when I visited Scotland, it was sodding, bleeding freezing in AUGUST, but I wasn't sure people reading this story would believe it so I made this fic happen in September. ;)
> 
> +++  
> I want to thank willietheplaidjacket for their commissioned art showing Sherlock and John and that first kiss! - http://alexxphoenix42.tumblr.com/post/160766249053/alexxphoenix42-may-thanks-to


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